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    <title>1. CHAPTER XVI</title>
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    <div class="chapter" id="id1036801"><h2>1. CHAPTER XVI</h2>


<p id="id1036806"><span id="id121202"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->

Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton,
was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage.  Dinner-parties and
evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations
flowed in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending
they were never to have a disengaged day.
</p>

<p id="id1036809"><span id="id121215"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I see how it is,” said she.  “I see what a life I am to lead
among you.  Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. 
We really seem quite the fashion.  If this is living in the country,
it is nothing very formidable.  From Monday next to Saturday,
I assure you we have not a disengaged day!—A woman with fewer
resources than I have, need not have been at a loss.”
</p>

<p id="id1036793"><span id="id121221"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
No invitation came amiss to her.  Her Bath habits made evening-parties
perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste
for dinners.  She was a little shocked at the want of two
drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being
no ice in the Highbury card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry,
Mrs. Goddard and others, were a good deal behind-hand in knowledge
of the world, but she would soon shew them how every thing ought
to be arranged.  In the course of the spring she must return their
civilities by one very superior party—in which her card-tables
should be set out with their separate candles and unbroken packs
in the true style—and more waiters engaged for the evening
than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round
the refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.
</p>

<p id="id1036816"><span id="id121228"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner
at Hartfield for the Eltons.  They must not do less than others,
or she should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable
of pitiful resentment.  A dinner there must be.  After Emma had
talked about it for ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness,
and only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom
of the table himself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding
who should do it for him.
</p>

<p id="id1036819"><span id="id121243"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The persons to be invited, required little thought.  Besides the Eltons,
it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of course—
and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must
be asked to make the eighth:—but this invitation was not given
with equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly
pleased by Harriet’s begging to be allowed to decline it. 
“She would rather not be in his company more than she could help. 
She was not yet quite able to see him and his charming happy
wife together, without feeling uncomfortable.  If Miss Woodhouse
would not be displeased, she would rather stay at home.” 
It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it
possible enough for wishing.  She was delighted with the fortitude
of her little friend—for fortitude she knew it was in her to give
up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the
very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.—
Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley,
she was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had
often been.—Mr. Knightley’s words dwelt with her.  He had said
that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody
else paid her.
</p>

<p id="id1036822"><span id="id121252"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“This is very true,” said she, “at least as far as relates to me,
which was all that was meant—and it is very shameful.—Of the same age—
and always knowing her—I ought to have been more her friend.—
She will never like me now.  I have neglected her too long.  But I
will shew her greater attention than I have done.”
</p>

<p id="id1036826"><span id="id121256"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Every invitation was successful.  They were all disengaged and all happy.—
The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet over. 
A circumstance rather unlucky occurred.  The two eldest little
Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of
some weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them,
and staying one whole day at Hartfield—which one day would be
the very day of this party.—His professional engagements did
not allow of his being put off, but both father and daughter were
disturbed by its happening so.  Mr. Woodhouse considered eight
persons at dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bear—
and here would be a ninth—and Emma apprehended that it would
be a ninth very much out of humour at not being able to come even
to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without falling in with a dinner-party.
</p>

<p id="id1036829"><span id="id121264"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself,
by representing that though he certainly would make them nine,
yet he always said so little, that the increase of noise would be
very immaterial.  She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself,
to have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed
to her instead of his brother.
</p>

<p id="id1036832"><span id="id121276"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. 
John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town
and must be absent on the very day.  He might be able to join them
in the evening, but certainly not to dinner.  Mr. Woodhouse was quite
at ease; and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys
and the philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate,
removed the chief of even Emma’s vexation.
</p>

<p id="id1036814"><span id="id121282"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John Knightley
seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable. 
Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they waited
for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax.  Mrs. Elton, as elegant
as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in silence—
wanting only to observe enough for Isabella’s information—but Miss
Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could
talk to her.  He had met her before breakfast as he was returning
from a walk with his little boys, when it had been just beginning
to rain.  It was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject,
and he said,
</p>

<p id="id1036839"><span id="id121289"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I
am sure you must have been wet.—We scarcely got home in time. 
I hope you turned directly.”
</p>

<p id="id1036847"><span id="id121302"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I went only to the post-office,” said she, “and reached home
before the rain was much.  It is my daily errand.  I always fetch
the letters when I am here.  It saves trouble, and is a something
to get me out.  A walk before breakfast does me good.”
</p>

<p id="id1036836"><span id="id121308"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.”
</p>

<p id="id1036858"><span id="id121317"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.”
</p>

<p id="id1036864"><span id="id121325"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,
</p>

<p id="id1036868"><span id="id121333"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six
yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you;
and Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before. 
The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. 
When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are
never worth going through the rain for.”
</p>

<p id="id1036873"><span id="id121340"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
There was a little blush, and then this answer,
</p>

<p id="id1036870"><span id="id121348"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of
every dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply
growing older should make me indifferent about letters.”
</p>

<p id="id1036886"><span id="id121361"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Indifferent!  Oh! no—I never conceived you could become indifferent. 
Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very
positive curse.”
</p>

<p id="id1036894"><span id="id121373"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters
of friendship.”
</p>

<p id="id1036879"><span id="id121382"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I have often thought them the worst of the two,” replied he coolly. 
“Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly
ever does.”
</p>

<p id="id1036908"><span id="id121394"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Ah! you are not serious now.  I know Mr. John Knightley too well—
I am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as
any body.  I can easily believe that letters are very little to you,
much less than to me, but it is not your being ten years older than
myself which makes the difference, it is not age, but situation. 
You have every body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably,
never shall again; and therefore till I have outlived all my affections,
a post-office, I think, must always have power to draw me out,
in worse weather than to-day.”
</p>

<p id="id1036911"><span id="id121401"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of years,”
said John Knightley, “I meant to imply the change of situation
which time usually brings.  I consider one as including the other. 
Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within
the daily circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you. 
As an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten
years hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have.”
</p>

<p id="id1036914"><span id="id121408"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence.  A pleasant
“thank you” seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip,
a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. 
Her attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being,
according to his custom on such occasions, making the circle of
his guests, and paying his particular compliments to the ladies,
was ending with her—and with all his mildest urbanity, said,
</p>

<p id="id1036918"><span id="id121416"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this
morning in the rain.  Young ladies should take care of themselves.—
Young ladies are delicate plants.  They should take care of their
health and their complexion.  My dear, did you change your stockings?”
</p>

<p id="id1036901"><span id="id121421"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind
solicitude about me.”
</p>

<p id="id1036927"><span id="id121431"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.—
I hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well.  They are some
of my very old friends.  I wish my health allowed me to be a
better neighbour.  You do us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. 
My daughter and I are both highly sensible of your goodness,
and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield.”
</p>

<p id="id1036931"><span id="id121438"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel
that he had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.
</p>

<p id="id1036922"><span id="id121447"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton,
and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane.
</p>

<p id="id1036945"><span id="id121456"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“My dear Jane, what is this I hear?—Going to the post-office
in the rain!—This must not be, I assure you.—You sad girl,
how could you do such a thing?—It is a sign I was not there
to take care of you.”
</p>

<p id="id1036952"><span id="id121470"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.
</p>

<p id="id1036959"><span id="id121478"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! do not tell me.  You really are a very sad girl, and do not
know how to take care of yourself.—To the post-office indeed! 
Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like?  You and I must positively
exert our authority.”
</p>

<p id="id1036967"><span id="id121492"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“My advice,” said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, “I certainly
do feel tempted to give.  Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.—
Liable as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought
to be particularly careful, especially at this time of year. 
The spring I always think requires more than common care. 
Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day for your letters,
than run the risk of bringing on your cough again.  Now do not you
feel that you had?  Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable. 
You look as if you would not do such a thing again.”
</p>

<p id="id1036970"><span id="id121499"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! she shall not do such a thing again,” eagerly rejoined
Mrs. Elton.  “We will not allow her to do such a thing again:”—
and nodding significantly—“there must be some arrangement made,
there must indeed.  I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches
our letters every morning (one of our men, I forget his name)
shall inquire for yours too and bring them to you.  That will obviate
all difficulties you know; and from us I really think, my dear Jane,
you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation.”
</p>

<p id="id1036954"><span id="id121506"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“You are extremely kind,” said Jane; “but I cannot give up my
early walk.  I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can,
I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon
my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before.”
</p>

<p id="id1036975"><span id="id121512"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“My dear Jane, say no more about it.  The thing is determined,
that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine
any thing without the concurrence of my lord and master.  You know,
Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. 
But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely
worn out.  If I meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore,
consider that point as settled.”
</p>

<p id="id1036983"><span id="id121518"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Excuse me,” said Jane earnestly, “I cannot by any means consent
to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. 
If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it
always is when I am not here, by my grandmama’s.”
</p>

<p id="id1036992"><span id="id121525"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!—And it is a kindness
to employ our men.”
</p>

<p id="id1036999"><span id="id121536"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead
of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.
</p>

<p id="id1037006"><span id="id121544"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“The post-office is a wonderful establishment!” said she.—
“The regularity and despatch of it!  If one thinks of all that it
has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!”
</p>

<p id="id1036985"><span id="id121558"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“It is certainly very well regulated.”
</p>

<p id="id1037017"><span id="id121566"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears!  So seldom
that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing
about the kingdom, is even carried wrong—and not one in a million,
I suppose, actually lost!  And when one considers the variety
of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered,
it increases the wonder.”
</p>

<p id="id1037021"><span id="id121572"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“The clerks grow expert from habit.—They must begin with some
quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them.  If you
want any farther explanation,” continued he, smiling, “they are
paid for it.  That is the key to a great deal of capacity. 
The public pays and must be served well.”
</p>

<p id="id1037024"><span id="id121578"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual
observations made.
</p>

<p id="id1037028"><span id="id121586"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I have heard it asserted,” said John Knightley, “that the same
sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the
same master teaches, it is natural enough.  But for that reason,
I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females,
for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble
into any hand they can get.  Isabella and Emma, I think, do write
very much alike.  I have not always known their writing apart.”
</p>

<p id="id1037034"><span id="id121593"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Yes,“ said his brother hesitatingly, ”there is a likeness. 
I know what you mean—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.“
</p>

<p id="id1037026"><span id="id121604"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse;
“and always did.  And so does poor Mrs. Weston”—with half a sigh
and half a smile at her.
</p>

<p id="id1037050"><span id="id121617"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting”—Emma began, looking also
at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was
attending to some one else—and the pause gave her time to reflect,
“Now, how am I going to introduce him?—Am I unequal to speaking
his name at once before all these people?  Is it necessary
for me to use any roundabout phrase?—Your Yorkshire friend—
your correspondent in Yorkshire;—that would be the way, I suppose,
if I were very bad.—No, I can pronounce his name without the
smallest distress.  I certainly get better and better.—Now for it.”
</p>

<p id="id1037053"><span id="id121623"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again—“Mr. Frank Churchill
writes one of the best gentleman’s hands I ever saw.”
</p>

<p id="id1037061"><span id="id121635"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“I do not admire it,” said Mr. Knightley.  “It is too small—
wants strength.  It is like a woman’s writing.”
</p>

<p id="id1037043"><span id="id121645"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
This was not submitted to by either lady.  They vindicated him
against the base aspersion.  “No, it by no means wanted strength—
it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. 
Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?”  No, she had
heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put
it away.
</p>

<p id="id1037070"><span id="id121654"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“If we were in the other room,” said Emma, “if I had my writing-desk,
I am sure I could produce a specimen.  I have a note of his.—
Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you
one day?”
</p>

<p id="id1037079"><span id="id121667"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“He chose to say he was employed”—
</p>

<p id="id1037082"><span id="id121675"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner
to convince Mr. Knightley.”
</p>

<p id="id1037088"><span id="id121685"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,”
said Mr. Knightley dryly, “writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse,
he will, of course, put forth his best.”
</p>

<p id="id1037096"><span id="id121698"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Dinner was on table.—Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to,
was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request
to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying—
</p>

<p id="id1037105"><span id="id121712"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
“Must I go first?  I really am ashamed of always leading the way.”
</p>

<p id="id1037111"><span id="id121720"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
Jane’s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma. 
She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know
whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any.  She suspected
that it had; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered
but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear,
and that it had not been in vain.  She thought there was an air
of greater happiness than usual—a glow both of complexion and spirits.
</p>

<p id="id1037114"><span id="id121727"><!--anchor--></span><!--after-->
She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition
and the expense of the Irish mails;—it was at her tongue’s end—
but she abstained.  She was quite determined not to utter a word
that should hurt Jane Fairfax’s feelings; and they followed
the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance
of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each.
</p>



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